THE GRIM ACCOUNTING
The bullet only grazed Stark's face, and he recovered himself in a
flash, knowing that he was not hurt. With a muttered exclamation he
swung to confront the small, slim figure kneeling before him in the
shadow.
Dexter saw the man shift the aim of his rifle, realized that Alison's
life was forfeit. He gathered his muscles, and a long leap carried
him across the floor to her side. The weight of his body forced the
girl to the floor as he flung himself upon her; and he held her so,
shielding her, while he wrested the revolver from her fingers.
Even as his left hand closed over the butt of the weapon the pent-up
atmosphere of the room was jolted by the concussion of a heavy
report, a burst of flame flared in his face, and a bullet fanned his
top hair and tore splinters from the bunk post behind him. He saw
Stark's eye staring at him down the rifle barrel as he jerked down
the lever to inject a second cartridge.
Dexter was vouchsafed his instant of life, and he grasped its full
measure. Alison's revolver was held comfortably in his left hand.
There sounded a faint double snick as he drew back the hammer, and
then he threw up the muzzle, and without seeming to aim, he fired.
Stark tossed up his head with the shot, and a queer look of
bewilderment passed over his face. For a moment he held rigid on his
feet, his eyes blankly gazing through the curling wreaths of smoke;
then, his hands opened, as though they found the weight of the rifle
too much for his strength; his legs bowed and caved beneath him and
he doubled over backwards and fell heavily upon the floor.
In a second Dexter was on his feet, the light of battle flaming in
his eyes. There was but one bullet left in the revolver, but the
other men did not know, and he felt a thrilling confidence in himself
as he stepped forward into the room.
There were five men left, but Crill was unarmed, and he held no fear
of Archie Preston. Doucet, Croix and the red-bearded stranger were
ranged in a compact group by the doorway. All three held rifles, but
the dramatic suddenness of events seemed for the moment to have
paralyzed their mental faculties. In the two seconds that might have
enabled them to recover their wits, the corporal was upon them.
"Drop your guns!" he commanded, furious and menacing. His revolver
somehow seemed to threaten all three at once. "Quick!" he jerked out
savagely--"or you get it too!"
There followed a short, sharp interval of uncertainty, in which the
tide of affairs quivered on a hair. But Dexter was still advancing,
determined, formidable.
The little, ferret-eyed Croix stood nearest to him, and Croix was the
first to weaken. His glance fell before the officer's eyes, his hand
opened, and his rifle clattered to the floor.
"You, 'Phonse!" thundered Dexter. Doucet hesitated, wavered, and
then he too dropped his weapon.
There remained the red-bearded man, and he was left alone facing the
officer. He, perhaps, was made of sterner stuff than his two
companions, but he could not help knowing that to fight back now
spelled certain death, and after a short conflict of glances, he too
threw down his gun.
"Into the corner behind the fireplace--all of you!" Dexter ordered.
"Crill and Preston, you also!" He sidled over towards the front
wall, and herded the men away from the door. Slowly they backed
before the leveled revolver, and in two or three seconds he had
driven them into the corner, where they huddled together like sheep.
The corporal ducked his head to his shoulder with a quick, nervous
movement to wipe the moisture from his forehead. Then he looked up
again, and laughed with a queer catch in his voice. "You're to stay
where you are with your hands up," he announced. "I'll call you
forward by name, one at a time, and feel your clothes for side arms--"
He was interrupted by a sobbing sound from the direction of the bunk,
and as he half turned to look, he saw Alison lift herself to her feet
and stumble forward into the lantern light. "Archie!" she cried in a
piteous voice. "Forgive me--oh, Archie--I did it for--I couldn't
help it!"
She swung around to face Dexter, her tearful gaze meeting his. "I
have given my brother's life for yours, David," she said in a
stricken whisper. Then she tottered across to the table, buried her
head in her arms, and broke down in convulsive sobbing.
Dexter took a step forward and stood over her for a moment with awed
and wondering eyes. His hand strayed towards her shoulder but he
checked the movement, shook his head, and turned slowly away. Once
more he faced the men in the corner of the room.
"You first, Doucet!" he commanded brusquely. "Come forward!" He
beckoned with the muzzle of his revolver, but before the man had a
chance to obey, the front door flung open with a crash and booted
feet clumped into the cabin entrance.
Dexter whirled with a gasp of dismay. He stared wildly--blinked his
eyes incredulously--and stared again. In the open doorway stood
Colonel Devreaux.
"Colonel!" cried Dexter.
The superintendent held motionless for a space, his keen, searching
glance taking in the strange scene before him. "We heard shots," he
remarked after a hushed interval. "What's happened here?"
Relief, thankfulness, and also a great weariness, might have been
read in the relaxing lines of the corporal's face. He had held up
for hours by the strength of will, but at sight of his officer the
buoying sense of responsibility left him, and he found himself
slipping. He seemed all at once to lose inches of stature, to settle
within himself, as a sword shoved back in its scabbard. For once in
his life he failed to answer his commander's question.
"You--I believed you were dead," he said in a queer, far-off voice.
"Not yet." Devreaux peered at the corporal from under his grizzled
brows. "I wandered down the valley to find you, after you had left
that cave; but the sun thawed out your trail. Kept on going, and
after days managed to reach the lower pass. And I chanced to meet
Sergeant Brunswick and Constables Devlin and Jones coming in from the
south to hunt me."
"You--you're all right?" asked Dexter weakly.
"Able to travel, at any rate." The old man thrust out his
barrel-like chest, and the old dauntless smile for an instant crossed
his deep-lined face.
"But how did you find me?" persisted the corporal in his unsteady
voice.
"You left police blazes behind to mark your trail." The colonel
squinted curiously as he surveyed the man before him. "Forgotten?"
Dexter's glance traveled past the superintendent's stalky figure and
he saw three men in the familiar uniforms of the police lurking
outside in the misty dawn. And something within him recalled him to
himself, reminded him that he was still on duty.
With a sudden stiffening of his muscles he drew his body straight
and, thrusting his revolver into his pocket, he brought his hand up
in salute.
"I have finished long patrol," he said, "and can make my completed
report, sir. I was forced to shoot and kill one Owen Stark, and I
hold myself at your disposal for the inquiries of the court. I have
placed under arrest, and now yield to police custody, the following
prisoners: Alphonse Doucet, Norbert Croix, Roy 'Pink' Crill, one man
whose name I have not yet learned, Archibald Preston, and--and Alison
Rayne Preston.
"And--with your permission, sir," he added in a failing voice, "I
should like to report off duty. I want to go to sleep."